Counting etched birdsong .

If you gave that second thought 

a second chance every time 

you’d soon realise that a decade just past by 

whilst counting  birdsong etched 

on your crystal hands to remind you

of trying to trick and fold ticking time.

Strip it back and lay it bare 

these vacuum packed streets of fanciful decay    

ready made resuscitation of the satirist 

playing through the new elliptical air 

Watching queues appear and disappear 

the disappointment of a first viewing

a vanity fitting for my head.
death a photographic emporium full of embarrassment 

as I am caught posing in situ by a Edison flasher 

and question whether I will age like a decent pouring grain 

yet to be found within the citations and recipe department 

of a diamond cut circular earth

Of a whiskey appreciator watching Stock 

copy cats rise all around

A smoke act city.